


I Wouldn't Normally Do This Kind of Thing

by KaraRenee



Series: Red Letter Day [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Barry Manilow song, Frotting, George Michael song, Greg Lestrade in a kilt, Greg and Mycroft hook up at John and Sherlock's wedding, Greg gets drunk and dances with Mycroft, Hot Fuzz, Kilts, M/M, Mycroft Holmes in a kilt, Mycroft's ex-wife helps them hook up, Random Hot Fuzz quote, Some brutal honesty about blow jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 02:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9857138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaraRenee/pseuds/KaraRenee
Summary: A one-shot story that picks up at John and Sherlock's wedding reception at the end of Indefinite Leave to Remain.  Greg can't get Mycroft off his mind, even when Portia Holmes is flirting with him.





	

Portia’s joyous laughter was like tinkling bells to Greg’s drunken ears.  Her pale face glowed with the warmth of the room and the glass of red wine she held in her elegant fingers. Her halo of white hair, her blue-green eyes, and her flawless, youthful skin were ethereal.  The deep blue gown, flecked with tiny bits of… was that glitter?  Tiny crystals sewn into the fabric? Stars.  Stars in the winter sky.  He could see the night sky through the French doors of the tea room. Cold dark blue and spangled with stars. You couldn’t see this many stars in the city. Since the power had come back on, the icy garden was illuminated with thousands of white fairy lights. Snow covered trees glittered and reflected the tiny lights.  Mycroft was standing by the French doors.  He was on his phone, talking rapidly.  

 

“You aren’t paying attention to a word I am saying, Greg.”  Portia smirked.  She had been following Lestrade’s gaze for some time.

 

“I’m sorry. I must have had too much to drink.”  He looked at the dregs of the blood coloured wine in his glass.

 

Portia looked from Greg to Mycroft. 

 

“Indeed.  Since I started paying attention to you, I’d say that was your fourth.”

 

“Yes, I’ve been with the force for about thirty years.  But according to official guidelines we don’t refer to it as the force anymore.  We are to refer to it as the Service.”

 

Her coral painted lips spread into a wide grin. 

 

Mycroft pocketed his phone. 

 

“Would you care to dance again, Inspector?” Portia leaned against the bar, nodded towards the bartender and her glass.  The bartender nodded towards Greg.  Portia shook her head, lips and eyes saying No.  The bartender placed one glass of wine near Portia’s elbow.

 

“You know,” he gulped the dregs of his drink, eyes never leaving Mycroft.  “I think I would.” 

 

***

 

Mycroft stood by the French doors.  All told his little brother’s wedding had been quite nice.  Lady MacDonald stayed sober through dinner.  Sergeant Cawood had kept an eagle eye on her the whole evening.  Once Lady MacDonald announced to Molly and Mychelle that she’d like to try “something I did with the girls back in school” Cawood ushered her out of the hotel as quickly as she could. John and Sherlock had not been able to stop smiling at one another.  He had never seen either man laugh as much as they had this evening.  Olivia had danced until she fell asleep on the cushioned window seat.  Every time someone tried to carry her upstairs, she’d wake up and shout “I’m wake! I party!”  So everyone agreed to let her stay where she was until the party was over. 

 

His parents were clearly having the time of their lives.  Mycroft had heard about his mother’s monopoly of the karaoke machine the night before, and was grateful the D.J. did not have it tonight.  Mrs. Hudson had mixed her herbal soothers a little too liberally with champagne and ended up having an early night.  No one could get her to stop weeping with joy that her “boys” had finally made honest men of each other and figured themselves out.  Molly and Barry sat at the window seat where Olivia had been napping earlier.  They held hands and whispered.  Molly rested her head on his shoulder.  They looked more than happy.   They looked content.  

 

It was charming to see Portia and Mychelle again.  Granted it had only been a month since he’d seen his step-daughter last.  Mychelle was a barrister with political aspirations. Portia was as gorgeous as ever.  It was a pity he never felt attracted to her. Portia had been living in Paris for the past five years since they sold their house in Marseilles.  The house they shared for nearly twenty years - her full time, him for holidays. Mycroft had not seen her since he saw her settled in her new flat. He used to enjoy escaping to the chateau, the French countryside was his favorite place to be. Portia was always good company. She was clever and witty, knew when to leave him alone and when to be an ear. But Paris was just as noisy and dirty as London.  Mycroft longed for a  bit of pastoral solitude  to break the loud and fast pace of life. 

 

There was Portia, chatting up Inspector Lestrade. Greg Lestrade.  Mycroft tilted his head to the side.  The detective inspector was handsome in a rugged copper kind of way.  His private nickname for Lestrade, the one he only used in his mind, was Officer Silver Fox.  Mycroft let his eyes drift down from the neatly coiffed grey hair to the way his defined calf muscles looked in his hose. The hem of his kilt swished around his knees as he walked towards Mycroft.

 

He swept a hand down the front of his vest and smiled.  “Hello Greg.”

 

“Saw you on your mobile.  You aren’t working tonight, are you?”

 

“The British government never sleeps.” 

 

“Do you?”

 

“Do I what, Detective Inspector?”

 

“Sleep, Mister Holmes.”

 

Mycroft’s lips spread into a thin smile.  “Only because it’s necessary.”

 

Greg clenched and unclenched his hands.  He fussed with his sporran.  

 

“How is your first kilt wearing experience, Greg?”  

 

Lestrade thought his name sounded like whispers on velvet when Mycroft said it. 

 

“Your advice earlier came in handy.  Thanks for that.”

 

Mycroft nodded his head slightly. 

 

“Wear kilts often, do you?”

 

“When the occasion calls for it.  My wedding to Portia.  Visiting Scottish Parliament.  When business takes me to Balmoral.”

 

“Righ posh bastard, aren’t you?”

 

Mycroft sighed quietly and looked at his feet.

 

“Uh. Sorry.” Greg bent his head to catch his eye. “Seriously, I was out of line right there. Sorry, Mycroft.”

 

He raised his eyes to meet Greg’s.  His breath hitched audibly.

 

“I didn’t mean to be a prat.  I came to see if you wanted to dance again.”

 

John and Sherlock had disappeared about half an hour earlier.  Lydia and Gregory had taken Olivia up for the night.  Most of the guests were finishing off the last of their drinks before the bar closed. Portia stood at the bar, wine glass in her hand, smirking as she watched the two men.  The music was slow. A new song started - soft piano and acoustic guitar, George Michael’s tender vocals.

 

_ The first time ever I saw your face I thought the sun rose in your eyes.... _

 

“Oh.”  Mycroft swallowed.  The muscles in his jaw twitched.  

 

_ … the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave to the dark and endless sky… _

 

Greg’s chest seized with panic. “If you don’t want to, it’s fine,” he said quickly. “I just thought…”

 

“I’d love to.” A genuine smile spread from Mycroft’s lips to his eyes.  “Greg.”

 

_ … to the dark and endless skies… _

 

Lestrade lowered his eyes and stretched out his left pinky finger.  He brushed it against Mycroft’s hand.  Mycroft felt an electric jolt at the slight touch.  He cautiously hooked his index finger around Greg’s pinky.  They walked to the edge of the parquet. 

 

_ And the first time ever I kissed your mouth… _

 

Mycroft placed his right hand on Greg’s left hip.  Unlike earlier, Greg did not flinch.  

 

“Eyes on me.  I shall lead.” Mycroft’s voice was barely above a whisper.

 

_ I felt the earth move in my hand… _

 

Greg perched his left hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.  As Mycroft clasped Greg’s right hand, he caressed his palm with his thumb. They kept their eyes locked.

 

_.... Like the trembling heart of a captive bird that was there at my command, my love _ …

 

They moved slowly in a square.  The steps were more soft swaying instead of proper rumba hip movements. Mycroft relaxed his left elbow, and pulled Greg closer to him.  

 

_ And the first time I ever lay with you I felt your heart so close to mine _ …

 

Portia placed her nearly full glass on the bar. She had been so caught up in watching the two kilted men by the windows that she neglected her fresh drink.  She grinned at her daughter as she skirted the dance floor. Mychelle smiled back and kept watching her step-father with the handsome detective.  Portia slipped behind the table to whisper to the D.J.  He nodded and pointed to the playlist he had been quickly creating on his laptop.  Portia laughed silently, gave him a peck on the cheek and slipped him a hundred pound note. 

 

Greg’s left hand settled fully on to Mycroft’s shoulder.  He flexed his fingers, gently squeezed his shoulder.  Mycroft responded by pulling Greg closer. A new song began.

 

_ I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast... _

 

“Oh, mother,” Mychelle giggle whispered as Portia sat beside her. “Did you request this?”

 

“I didn’t have to.  That clever D.J. had it queued up before I could get to him.”

 

_ I fall in love too terribly hard for love to ever last _ …

 

Mychelle tilted her head slightly as if to hear better. “It’s a cover. I don’t recognize the singer.”   
  


“Barry Manilow.”

 

Mycroft guided Greg expertly in their little corner of the floor.  Sharma had her arms around her husband’s neck, looking like a teenage couple at their first dance.  Miller and his wife shared whispers and quiet laughs as they swayed together.  

 

“I can’t believe father pulled at this reception and I didn’t.” Mychelle traced circles on the tablecloth with her whisky glass.

 

“Well, he hasn’t yet.  I’m not sure if the Detective Inspector is just drunk, or… oh.”

 

_ My heart should be well-schooled 'Cause I've been fooled in the past _

_ But still I fall in love so easily, I fall in love too fast... _

 

Mycroft’s hand slid from Greg’s hip to his left buttock.  He pressed Greg closer. Lestrade’s dark eyes were heavy lidded with wine and heat. Their noses were centimeters apart.

 

“Greg, I…”

 

“Shhh.” Greg leaned forward, nose brushed against nose.  

 

“Your sporran is pressing into my thigh.” He licked his bottom lip.

 

“That isn’t my sporran, Myc…”  He closed the hair’s breadth of space between their lips.  They touched tentatively, breath intermingling, mouths moving in nearly imperceptible motions.  Greg pressed his erection against Mycroft’s thigh.  A tiny moan escaped Mycroft’s mouth.  Greg’s tongue took advantage of the moment.  He licked along the seam of Mycroft’s lips.  Mycroft opened his mouth, hungrily kissing his Silver Fox.

 

The D.J. approached Portia with the hundred pound note.  

 

“No, you earned it. Please keep it.”

 

“I’m insanely jealous.  I didn’t end up with a handsome officer.”  Mychelle frowned at her mother.

 

“Neither did I, love.” She shrugged slightly, the blue strap of her gown slipped off her shoulder.  “Perhaps we’ll do better at your father’s wedding?”  Portia’s eyes were bright with mischief and glee.

 

“Mum!  It’s just one ki… oh.”

 

Only Sharma and Miller were left on the parquet with their spouses, shuffling to the strains of “How Deep Is Your Love?”  

 

Mychelle groaned.  “Did you pick this one?”

 

Portia smiled.  “Let’s head up.  It’s been a long day.”

 

***

 

“Greg, have you considered…”

 

“Hush.”  Lestrade ran one hand up the back of Mycroft’s neck.  He tilted his head and devoured the mouth of the British government.

 

The lift doors opened.  

 

“Your room or mine?” Greg’s pupils were wide, his breath heavy and fast.  

 

“Mine, I think.  I have… things we may find useful.”

 

Greg raised one dark grey eyebrow.  

 

“Just because I do not indulge in romantic entanglements does not mean I am unaware of the needs of the body.  The transport occasionally needs service.”

 

“That’s a rather cold description.”

 

“I don’t usually have anyone to … assist.”

 

“Unlock that door, Mister Holmes and let’s find out how I can assist.”

 

Greg’s inebriated haze began to lift.  His mind raced.  _ What are you doing, Lestrade? How will this end up? Am I gay? Bi? Does it matter? What was it Sherlock said earlier? Sod it.  Can’t remember.  God, I love the way he smiles at me.  Why don’t women ever smile at me that way? Am I really doing this? I’m totally doing this. Can’t be much different from doing it to myself.   _

 

_ God, I want him to touch me. _

 

Mycroft opened his door and flicked on one light.  It was bright by the doorway, but it gave the rest of the room a subdued glow. Housekeeping had moved his garment bag and hangers from where he had left them on the bed, to the wardrobe.  The bed was turned down.  

 

Greg stepped inside.  Mycroft closed the door with a soft click.  

 

With his back still to Mycroft, Greg slid out of his Prince Charlie jacket.  He dropped it carelessly to the floor. He reached up to loosen his tie and looked over his shoulder.  A tiny grin turned up one side of Mycroft’s mouth.  Greg dropped his tie on top of his jacket.  He unbuttoned his vest.  As he peeled it off, Mycroft reached up. His long fingers dragged the black vest off slowly.  

 

“I hate leaving clothes on the…”

 

“If you want to see what’s under my kilt, you’ll leave it on the floor.”  Greg added his belt with the heavy silver buckle and sporran to the pile.

 

Mycroft stood behind him, hands reached around to caress his chest.  Greg leaned back, head rested on Mycroft’s shoulder.  Mycroft dragged his nose up Greg’s neck, breathing in the scent of aftershave, sweat and wine.  He untucked the shirt and slowly unbuttoned it from the top down.  With each undone button, he traced lines on Greg’s bare chest. He played with the thatch of silver hair that ran from his sternum to his navel.  Greg moaned.  Mycroft pressed his mouth against Greg’s neck.  As his hands reached the bottom of the shirt, he rubbed his palm against the bulge in Greg’s kilt.  

 

“Fuuuuck,” he gasped. “Mycroft…”

 

“I am fascinated by your body’s responses to me, Greg.”

 

“I’m not something for you to deduce.”  He turned in Mycroft’s arms to face him.  

 

“My experience with lovers is … minimal.” His face flushed with embarrassment.

 

“My experience with men is nil.”  Greg placed his palm against Mycroft’s stubbled cheek.  “It’s not stopping me.”

 

Mycroft turned his face into Greg’s palm.  He kissed it. “Why?  Why me?” His eyes went soft.

 

“Because you’re clever. And you’re handsome. And because even after the wine started to wear off, I knew I wanted to see what Mycroft Holmes looked like under his perfect facade.”

 

Greg pulled the bow tie loose.  He worked the buttons on Mycroft’s shirt and vest.  “I want to see you undone.  I want to see that hawkish look in your eye melt when I get you off.”

 

Mycroft awkwardly shucked off his coat, vest and shirt.  Greg unbuckled the belt and sporran. Bare chests pressed together, they kissed.  Hands stroked and squeezed every inch of naked skin.  Mycroft hissed when Greg brushed his nipple.  

 

“I want to see that haughty tilt of your chin brought low when your mouth is wrapped around my cock.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes went wide.  “You are far more bold than I anticipated.”

 

“Imagine my surprise over the last several hours when that’s all I’ve been able to think about.”

 

Greg started on the buckles on Mycroft’s kilt. 

 

“Hose and brogues off first,” he whispered. “Otherwise we’ll look terribly awkward.”

 

A bemused smile curled Lestrade’s mouth.  He bit the corner of his lower lip.  

 

Mycroft strolled towards the armchair.  He unlaced his shoes and pulled them off with care.  He slid  his fingers under the fold of the hose.  He removed each one slowly, folded them, and laid them on the desk. 

 

Greg would have shucked shoes and hose as he stood there watching.  But he was aware of his dodgy knee.  Being a man of a certain age, he didn’t want to look foolish if he fell over trying to disrobe for sex. He sat on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes.  He pulled them off with far less grace than Mycroft had.  His cream coloured hose were inside out and balled up. 

 

“Come here,” Greg beaconed with his index finger.  

 

Mycroft rose elegantly from the chair to glide the few feet between them.  Greg pressed his mouth to his bare belly.  Mycroft flinched and sucked in his stomach.

 

“Please, I…”

 

“Are a middle aged man with a slight belly,” Greg peppered it with soft kisses.  “What do you think I am?”  He licked a stripe from Mycroft’s navel to his hip bone. 

 

“Currently I’d say you were an incubus.  But that could be the dopamine and oxytocin clouding my judgement.” 

 

Greg undid Mycroft’s kilt. He held it in place.  “You should know I’m not drunk anymore.”  His pupils were wide in his dark brown eyes.

 

“Are you having second thoughts?”  Mycroft ran his fingers through Greg’s silver hair.

 

The kilt fell to the floor.

 

Greg leaned forward.  He took the tip of Mycroft’s cock in his mouth.  Salty with pre-cum, the flavour was slightly sweet, which surprised Greg.  The faint scents of sweat and urine filled his nostrils momentarily.  He took another inch into his mouth.  Mycroft moaned and scratched Greg’s scalp. He arched his neck to encourage Mycroft to continue the scalp massage.  He ran his tongue in circles around the head.  He lapped at the slit.  Mycroft fisted Greg’s hair and thrust forward.  For a moment his mouth and throat were full of cock.   _ Well, now don’t I feel like an ass for demanding deep throat from all those women _ …  He gagged. Mycroft pulled back.

 

“Sorry.” 

 

“Come see if I really took your advice about what to not wear under my kilt.” Greg slid backwards on the bed, one knee bent, the other leg dangled off the side, toes brushed the floor.  He reclined on his elbows.

 

Naked Mycroft knelt on the mattress between Greg’s legs.  He ran his hands up the inside of Greg’s thighs.  The heavy wool fell away revealing grey hair on his quads.  

 

“Every inch of you sparkles, Greg.” Mycroft kissed a line from the bent knee to midway down the inner thigh.  “It’s like you were kissed by moonlight.”

 

Greg chuckled.  “I thought the greys mean I was just getting older.”

 

Mycroft stroked the pale hairs.  He caught and held Greg’s gaze.  “I am not often moved to poetry.  You are waking something inside me.  It’s…”

 

“Human?”

 

“Intriguing.”

 

Greg ran his hands through his hair and fell back against the pillow.  “God, I am a right prat.  Sorry, Mycroft.”  He rubbed his eyes with his fists.  When he opened them again, Mycroft was hovering over him, hands poised on either side of his head.

 

“You aren’t wrong, Greg.”

 

Lestrade frowned.  “I’m still sorry.  I don’t usually insult people I want to get off with.”

 

Mycroft raised one eyebrow.  “Perhaps it will become part of our foreplay.”

 

Greg chuckled. 

 

“I enjoy your laugh, Detective Inspector. I’d like to hear it more.”

 

“If you unbuckle my kilt, you may find a few ticklish spots.”

 

Mycroft looked intrigued.  He settled back between Greg’s thighs.  

 

“Lift your hips, we don’t want to stain the kilt.”  Greg complied.  Mycroft tossed the plaid across the room.  He leaned forward. He ran his nose up the grey-haired testicles and impressive erection.  Greg shivered.  “Nothing ticklish here.”

 

“Jesus, Mycroft…”

 

“Perhaps here?” Mycroft nuzzled the thatch of dark grey and silvery hairs.  

 

Greg moaned. 

 

“A failure.  Pity.” Mycroft grinned impishly.  “Perhaps… here?”  He traced Greg’s hip bones with his tongue.  

 

Lestrade squirmed a bit.  He half giggled between moans at every flick of Mycroft’s tongue, at the tiny bites Mycroft made along the line of his belly.

 

“A bit ticklish,” his breath was hot on the goose pimpled skin as he spoke quietly between kisses to Greg’s left hip.  

 

“Please, Mycroft,” Greg begged.

 

“Would you like me to tickle you more?” He smirked.

 

“I want to feel your mouth around my cock. Please.”

 

“Well, because you asked so nicely.”  Mycroft took the entire length in his mouth at once.  Not having a gag reflex, he could take Lestrade’s slightly longer than average penis all the way to the base.  He pulled back a little, then went down again.  On the way back up, he dragged his tongue up the shaft.

 

“If you do that again, I’ll pop right off in your mouth,” Greg gasped.

 

Mycroft looked up, mouth full of the head of Greg’s cock, and flicked his tongue over the tip.

 

“You do look fantastic like that.  Totally debauched and real.”

 

Mycroft smiled and sat back a bit.  “How would you like to get off, if not in my mouth?”

 

“Come here,” Greg reached for him.  Mycroft moved forward to lean on his forearms.  He pressed his hips down so they were cock against cock. 

 

“You feel like silk,” Greg groaned as Mycroft rocked his hips. 

 

“Greg, I,” Mycroft gasped.  “I had no idea I was this aroused.”  He licked his lips. “There is a small bottle on the table there,” he indicated with a quick nod of  his head.  “Open it.  Then grab us. Together.” 

 

Greg covered his palm in the cool lubricant, then reached down to take both erections in his hand.  Both men moaned. 

 

“Keep moving like that, Myc.”   Greg’s dark eyes closed.

 

“Open your eyes, Greg.  I want to see the look in your eye when you come.”  His blue-grey eyes were drowned out by his pupils.

 

“It won’t be long.”  Greg bit his lip. He kept his eyes locked on Mycroft’s.

 

“That pressure is perfect, Greg.”

 

“Nnnmph… Mycr…”

 

“Greg,” he panted.  “I’m…”

 

“Oh God!”

 

Greg arched his back, his head pressed deeper into the pillow.  He never turned his gaze away. His hand and belly were sticky with hot ejaculate.  

 

Mycroft rolled to the side. “Dear God.”

 

“Indeed,” Lestrade chuckled.  “I’m just gonna grab a flannel from your loo.”

 

***

 

In the bathroom, Greg stood before the large mirror wiping his belly and inner thighs with a warm cloth. He looked at his reflection.  Grey hair sex tousseled, pupils still dilated, skin flush with blood.  His lips were not swollen with kisses.  He rinsed the flannel and washed his hands. 

 

Mycroft appeared naked at the open door. 

 

“Did you get any on you?” Greg examined the pale skin, freckled slightly in places, the slight paunch, the now flaccid penis.  He reached for a clean flannel.  

 

“Thank you.  I can wash myself.”

 

Greg ignored him.  He ran the cloth under a hot tap and rang it out.  

 

“Come here,” he stepped closer.  He rubbed the flannel low across Mycroft’s belly, then gently along the creases of his thighs, and finally with amazing tenderness he used the flannel on his testes.  “See?  All clean.”  Greg smiled.

 

Mycroft had never had a lover be so tender.  He blushed.  

 

They stood awkwardly and naked in the harsh yellow light of the bathroom for several long moments.  Greg coughed.

 

“Well, um… I guess I’ll, um… go, and, umm…” 

 

Mycroft grabbed his wrist as he tried to pass him.  “Please stay.”

 

“Yeah?” Greg swallowed hard.

 

“I would like to sleep beside you, if you are amenable.”

 

Greg’s eyes crinkled with the depth of his grin.  “My ex-wife says I snore.”

 

“Funny, mine says the same about me.”

 

They both exhaled soft chuckles.  

 

“I’m a bit of a snuggler.”

 

“I’ve not had much experience being held.” Mycroft released Greg’s wrist.  He stroked Greg’s wrist and palm with his long fingers.  “But I believe I would very much like to fall asleep in your arms.”

 

Greg blushed.  “I don’t have any pajamas.”

 

“If we’re lucky, we won’t need them.  Clothes could get in the way come morning.”

 

***

In the dark, with just the faint blue glow of the clock and the fairy lights outside, Greg climbed under the covers.  He listened as Mycroft brushed his teeth.  He ran his tongue over his teeth.  He was grateful for the hotel toothbrush and that Mycroft had brought his own.  The toothpaste wasn’t his usual.  The toilet flushed, the water ran.  The door opened and the yellow light clicked off. 

 

Mycroft pulled the covers aside.  He could just see the outline of Greg’s body dark against the white hotel sheets. He lay on his side, his head against Greg’s shoulder.  Greg smiled and kissed his head. He stroked his freckled back.  “You practically glow in the dark.”

 

“Pasty white English man syndrome.”

 

Greg laughed.  “I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”

 

“I didn’t know I’d be composing ridiculous poetry in my head about your perfect lips and silver hair.”

 

“It’s been a night of interesting discoveries,” Greg tipped Mycroft’s chin up so he could kiss him.

 

“Sleep well, Mister Holmes.”

 

“You’ll wake me if I snore too loudly?”

 

“Absolutely.” Greg kissed the tip of his nose.  

 

They lay wrapped around one another, listening to each other’s breathing, the hotel, and the cold December night outside.  Greg looked over the top of Mycroft’s head.  The clock read one-thirty-two a.m.

 

He whispered.  “You said earlier that insults would become part of our foreplay.”

 

“Mmmm,” Mycroft replied sleepily.

 

“Does that mean I can see you again?”

 

“If you’d like to.”

 

“I’d like to.”

 

“Good,” Mycroft nuzzled closer.  “Then shut up and let me sleep.  I’ll plan our New Year’s date in my dreams.”

 

***

Mycroft rubbed the soapy flannel in circles on Greg’s back.  The hot water sprayed them both, making tiny streams of white suds flow down their bodies and swirl down the drain.  

 

“You will have to tell me about this scar sometime.  Stabbed in the line of duty.”

 

“Yeah, that’s right.”

 

“Save the story for our third date.” Mycroft placed a kiss on his shoulder.

 

“You haven’t told me about our second date yet.  We’ve had a second shag, but not a word on our second date.”

 

Mycroft grinned wickedly.  “All in good time, Detective Inspector.”

 

Greg gave his hair a final rinse.  They did an awkward shuffle, careful not to slip, so Mycroft could give himself a final rinse.  Mycroft turned off the taps.  Greg grabbed the towels.  He shivered as he stepped out of the shower.  

 

Mycroft casually reached over and turned on the heat lamps.  

 

“Cor, that’s nice.”  His shivering slowed down as he vigorously rubbed himself dry with the plush white towel.

 

“It’s nearly seven-thirty.  Shall I order room service for breakfast?”  Mycroft wrapped a towel around his waist.  

 

“Yeah,” Greg smiled.  “Yeah.  I’ll put my suit away and get some regular clothes and I’ll come back.”

 

“I’ll order it on my bill and have it sent to your room.  I need to check messages, make sure the Empire hasn’t fallen while I’ve been asleep.”

 

“And shagging.”  Greg waggled his eyebrows as he wrapped his towel around his hips. 

 

“Indeed,” Mycroft smirked.

 

Greg buckled the kilt on.  Mycroft laid the other pieces of his suit one at a time in his arms.  

 

“Breakfast will be delivered at eight-fifteen.”

 

“I’ll be waiting for you,” Greg leaned forward over his pile of clothes and kissed Mycroft quickly. He headed towards the door.

 

“I’ll expect more of those.”

 

“More of what?” Greg looked over his shoulder. 

 

“Kisses, Mister Lestrade.  I like the way you kiss me.”

 

Greg blushed, winked and left.

***

 

Sherlock stood in the corridor.  He pulled at his cuffs.  He watched Lestrade tip-toe from Mycroft’s room to his own wearing only his kilt, holding the rest of his clothes in a wad against his chest. Mycroft stood in the open door in a hotel bathrobe.

 

“Found your goldfish, I see.” Sherlock said once Greg was in his own room.

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “If you are going to be indiscreet, brother mine…”

 

Sherlock cut him off.  “Just be careful with him, Mycroft.  He’s my friend.”

 

Mycroft inclined his head and closed his eyes slowly.  “I shall endeavour to not be my usual callous self with the Detective Inspector.  He is,” he raised his gaze to his brother’s.  “Unique.”

 

Sherlock smiled. John came out of their room.  “Ready?  Oh, morning, Mycroft.  We’re headed down to breakfast with your parents and Olivia.  Will you be joining us?” 

 

He looked longingly at Greg’s door.  Mycroft tilted his chin up.  He exhaled bemusedly through his nose.  He lowered his chin slightly.  “Not today, John. I’ve ordered room service. I have work to do this morning.” His gaze went back to Greg’s door. 

 

John looked from Mycroft to the door to Sherlock and back to Mycroft.  “Um, okay.  We’re still on for lunch at one?”

  
Mycroft nodded slightly.  “I shall see you both then.”  

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a Pet Shop Boys song.  
> The songs at the reception are covers by George Michael and Barry Manilow.


End file.
